


Silver Springs

by straighthairdelphine



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Eventual Romance, F/F, Family, Films, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, New York City, Photography, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29704758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straighthairdelphine/pseuds/straighthairdelphine
Summary: After a tough upbringing, Therese Belivet finally has a stable home and a family she loves. Now, her new job at The New York Times is a chance to make something of herself, and a step towards her dream of becoming a photojournalist. But there's just one problem that threatens to disrupt it all: she's falling in love with her boss's wife.
Relationships: Abby Gerhard & Genevieve Cantrell, Carol Aird & Abby Gerhard, Carol Aird/Therese Belivet
Comments: 27
Kudos: 67





	1. Ladder to Climb

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back, as promised! I had the idea for this story when I was finishing 'Different Now', and I've finally gotten around to working on it. This will be a little quieter than my other fics - still relatively plot-driven, but without such an ambitious storyline as the last two. I hope you like it all the same!
> 
> You know the drill by now. As with each fic, I'll be taking plot points from the book/film and weaving them into my own story, and my characters remain largely the same, but their situations and relationships to each other change.
> 
> As always, please leave me a comment. I'd be grateful for the feedback, and happy to discuss anything you want to talk about! Thanks so much for reading. Enjoy the first chapter.

The enormous black backpack, stuffed to bursting, bumped into Therese for the third time as its owner, a dishevelled-looking hipster type with straggling blonde curls, stepped back into her again as he talked away animatedly on the phone. He noticed this time, quickly holding up his free hand and muttering a quick apology to her before returning to his conversation.  
  
The packed subway train rattled around her. Her earbuds blocked out most of the noise of it, but she could feel the vibrations, the sharp jolts, the pressure of the movements pushing her this way and that. She stood with her feet slightly apart, planted firmly on the ground, keeping herself steady. The chunky block heels of her boots were surprisingly reliable, and she made a mental note of this as she watched the glamorous woman by the opposite doors struggle to stay upright in her stilettos. High heels weren't exactly in Therese's wheelhouse, but she'd work up to them, she'd decided. All the other girls in the office seemed to wear them. She noticed it the last time she had been there.  
  
At 42nd Street-Port Authority, the doors slid open with a creak, and Therese pushed her way through to slip out onto the platform, turning right into the steady stream of people headed for the stairs like a car pulling out at a junction. Sometimes walking in the city could feel so much like driving, especially on a Monday morning in midtown Manhattan. She waited in this human traffic, shuffling across the platform and up the stairs, until they all emerged into the sunlight and parted ways.   
  
It was mild for February, the sun strong, hanging low in a small patch of blue sky, a break in the billowing clouds. It was still cold, of course, but not so biting as it had been in recent weeks. Therese fastened another button of her grey peacoat, and gently shook her head from one side to the other, letting her chocolate brown hair fall over her ears, warming them in its waves.   
  
She turned back on herself as she left the subway, in the direction of lower Manhattan, from where she had come. She had done the walking part of her new commute back in Greenwich Village, a short 10 minute journey from her apartment to the subway. Now, she strolled easily down the street, hands in her pockets, keeping in time with the pace of the majority around her, letting others overtake her in a hurry, until, just a minute later, she arrived.   
  
Therese stopped outside the enormous, glassy building, allowing herself a moment to take in the vastness of it, to look up and watch the endless windows stretch up into the sky until she couldn't see them at all. She pulled out her earbuds, the low voice of Fiona Apple interrupted suddenly, dissolving into the open air, into the noise of sirens and the heavy rumble of a bus driving by, the honking of car horns and loud conversations into cell phones and headsets.  
  
She had never felt so small in her life, she thought, at least physically. So shrunken by the atmosphere of the city and that tall, tall building that towered over her. And yet it was so awe-inspiring. That Therese, an ordinary 26 year old, professionally inexperienced yet undeniably streetwise, working class but with high hopes, had managed to find herself a space here.  
  
THE NEW YORK TIMES, read the giant sunscreen.  
  
Therese smiled to herself.  
  


* * *

  
Florence was waiting for her in the back of the bright orange lobby. People crossed the room from every direction, but the secretary hung back by the elevators, exactly where she said she would be. Therese recognised her instantly, having met her briefly on the interview day. Her style was prim and proper, hands clasped delicately in front of her, dark blonde hair swept into a neat updo that made her look older than she really was.  
  
Therese scanned herself in at the barriers in the middle of the lobby, swiping her ID card for the first time ever, a spark of joy igniting in her chest as she did so. She caught Florence's eye and gave her a quick wave, to which the other woman smiled thinly.   
  
'Therese', she greeted her as she approached, her tone somewhat indifferent. There was something haughty in her demeanour, discernible from the way she seemed to look down her nose at Therese, either out of scepticism or spite.  
  
'Hi, Florence', Therese smiled warmly in response, desperate to make a good impression regardless.  
  
'I'm sure you remember the way to the office, but I'll take you today in case you've forgotten'.  
  
'That's kind of you, I was actually a little worried about getting lost', Therese admitted. _Of course I don't remember how to get to the office,_ she thought. _This woman really expects me to know how to get around the Times building after one visit?_  
  
She followed Florence dutifully to the nearest elevator and squeezed in next to her as a group of waiting people filed in, before the doors slid shut in front of them. An awkward silence fell over them all, expanding in the small, enclosed space until it reached all four walls. Florence didn't say anything to Therese, just waited in the quiet, staring up at the ceiling as though she could see something there that was undetectable to anyone else. Therese did the same, as if there was nothing better to do than imitate the secretary. She found her own spot on the black ceiling and stared at it, feigning absentmindedness.  
  
At the 18th floor, the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, and the two of them exited, Florence leading.  
  
'Floor 18', she reminded Therese, without even turning around to make sure she was following.  
  
'Right', Therese confirmed, trailing behind her like an obedient puppy. She hated how pathetic this made her look, but at this point there was really no alternative.  
  
They walked down a long corridor, walls painted bare white, which, at it's end, opened out into a large, bright office space with floor-to-ceiling windows covering the two outside walls. Therese recognised it right away, the memories of her standing here as a terrified interviewee rushing back suddenly. There were maybe 50 people in the room, now, workspaces separated into smaller sections of three desks in a loose triangular formation. Four smaller offices ran along the front of the space, separating the managers from the other staff by glass walls and doors. An energy seemed to hang in the air, as present as the hum of voices from across the room. It was one of chaos, but perhaps the controlled kind, Therese thought, the kind that inspires urgency to get a job done. And from everything she'd ever heard about Manhattan office workers, she was fairly confident in her assessment.  
  
'Come with me', Florence instructed.  
  
Therese gave a curt nod and did as she asked, following her to the second manager's office, where she knocked twice on the door. Her new boss lifted his head, and gestured for Florence to come in.  
  
She opened the door a crack. 'Therese Belivet for you, Mr Aird', she called to him, then turned to leave, disappearing as quickly as she had come, Therese staring after her in disbelief.  
  
The man smiled, rising from his desk. 'Therese!' he approached her, hand outstretched.  
  
'Mr Aird', she greeted him, shrinking back into herself a little as she shook his hand.  
  
'Please, call me Harge', he said, waving a hand dismissively. 'It's great to see you again!'  
  
There was a warmth in his voice that Therese knew was more than just politeness. He seemed genuinely happy to welcome her, and it put her at ease. She smiled up at him. Harge was tall, a lot taller than her, with dark brown hair and a classically handsome face, like an old Hollywood movie star. Maybe she would have been interested in him, that is, if she was interested in men at all.   
  
'It's great to be here again', she assured him, hoping her shyness wasn't too obvious. 'I know I told you already on the phone, but I really am incredibly honoured that you chose me'.   
  
'Well, I'm glad to have you on the team. First things first, I'm gonna show you to your desk and we can get you all set up, does that sound okay?'  
  
'Yeah, that's perfect'.  
  
Harge nodded, and held the door open for Therese. 'Your co-workers should be here already', he murmured, more to himself than Therese, as he checked his watch. He briskly led her to the right-hand corner of the room, and through a low partition that revealed a trio of desks, much like any other section of the office. Two of them were occupied - one littered with paperwork, one pristine and orderly - and the other, the one beside her on her right, was bare, except for two sleek flatscreen computer monitors.  
  
Therese's new co-workers looked up.  
  
'Morning, you two', Harge greeted them both, leaning casually on the partition. 'This is Therese Belivet, I know you haven't had the chance to meet her yet'.  
  
The owner of the messy desk, an attractive young man with sandy blonde hair and sharp, angular features, immediately jumped up from his chair and came bounding over to them with all the excitement of a schoolboy.  
  
'This is Jack Taft', Harge introduced him.  
  
Jack took Therese's hand in a firm handshake, grinning. 'Hi, Therese, we're happy to have you with us!' he exclaimed.  
  
Therese smiled back. 'Hi, Jack', she said, both grateful and a little surprised at his enthusiastic welcome after the rather frosty reception from Florence.  
  
Harge then turned to the other desk. Behind it sat a woman with long, luscious black waves of hair, dressed in a pale blue silk shirt that seemed to match her eyes exactly. They were so bright and sparkling that they almost demanded attention, and Therese had to tear herself away.  
  
'And this is Genevieve Cantrell', Harge said.  
  
The woman rose gracefully from her chair, extending a manicured hand, which was cold to the touch as Therese shook it.  
  
'Hi, Genevieve, it's nice to meet you', Therese said timidly.  
  
'Likewise', she said in a low, almost monotone voice. 'It's about time we found a replacement for that useless Fred'.  
  
Therese noticed her accent right away; it was cut-glass, the Queen's English, and it made everything she said sound even more biting.  
  
'You're British', Therese commented stupidly.  
  
Genevieve raised a dark eyebrow. 'Really?' she said with a sardonic smirk. 'I hadn't noticed'.  
  
Therese opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a snort of laughter from Jack. Harge rolled his eyes.  
  
'Don't mind Gen', the boss assured her. 'She's harmless, really'.  
  
Therese turned back back to Genevieve. The older woman smiled sweetly at Harge, waiting until he looked away to shoot Therese a flirtatious wink.   
  
Therese could think of nothing else to do except stare at her, both a little bit awe-struck and little bit intimidated. Genevieve, with her glowing skin, her Louboutin high heels, her diamond rings . . . she looked at Jack, returned to his desk, and now found it impossible to ignore his slicked back hair and the tiny Ralph Lauren logo embroidered across the left breast of his shirt.  
  
Therese felt pathetic suddenly, like a little kid playing pretend. Her simple white shirt, black cigarette trousers with her boots, and the peacoat over the top, was her best, most professional outfit, and yet they made her look almost shabby in comparison to the elegant, expensive clothes of her co-workers. Now she held the same job title as both of them. Maybe that would suggest they shared the same rung on the career ladder, but in truth, Therese felt she had miles still to climb before she was anywhere near.  
  
'So I have a meeting starting in a couple minutes', Harge said, pulling Therese out of her dismal thoughts. 'I'm gonna leave you here with Jack, he'll start with the basics, and I'll come check back with you in an hour or so. Does that sound alright?'  
  
She plastered on a false smile. 'Okay', she nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. 'That's no problem'.  
  


* * *

  
It had started to rain during the course of the day, and now the light shower swept along the grimy sidewalks of Therese's neighbourhood. It was perfect umbrella weather, the rain not too heavy and the breeze not too strong - not that she had remembered to bring her umbrella. Instead, she held her bag over her head, droplets gathering in the creases of faux leather and dripping down the sides, along her wrists, dampening her coat sleeves. _Idiot_ , she cursed herself, for what felt like the hundredth time that day.  
  
Okay, so maybe she was being a little hard on herself. No one's first day at a new job is entirely smooth. And she hadn't exactly done anything wrong, but, with Jack easily fixing her every error in a mere few seconds, and Genevieve regarding her from her desk with those icy blue eyes, her little mistakes felt like huge failures. Therese was a perfectionist, there was no denying that, and she had always found it difficult to give herself a break when things didn't go to plan. But she _hadn't done anything wrong,_ she kept reminding herself. The daily tasks would become second nature to her soon enough, she just had to be patient.  
  
Of course, those feelings of imposter syndrome that had been creeping up on her, the devil on her shoulder, hadn't helped matters. Perhaps that was the real reason she was so hung up on her imperfections.  
  
 _I need to relax_ , she told herself.  
  
Therese arrived at her building, slinging her soaking wet bag over one shoulder and trudging up the four flights of stairs. She stopped for a moment to fumble in her pocket for her keys, the sound of low voices seeping out into the hall, mingled with the smell of frying chicken. Her brothers were home already.  
  
She opened the door. It was Dannie at the stove tonight, Phil sitting at the table, leaning back with his feet propped up on another chair, a half-empty bottle of Modelo in front of him. Both of them turned on hearing the creak of the door.  
  
'Here she is, the Times's best new junior photo editor', Dannie said, smiling proudly.  
  
'Hey, guys'.  
  
Dannie and Phil McElroy weren't really her brothers, not biologically, but they were the only family she'd ever known, the family she'd chosen for herself. After spending her early childhood moving from foster home to foster home - some of them unsafe, all of them unloving - she'd arrived at the group home where the two boys had lived for the previous couple years. She'd been 13 then, Dannie 14 and Phil 16. A friendship had developed quickly, and Therese learned to trust in people like she never had before; these two brothers had her back, and until, one by one, they aged out of the system, they were inseparable. When Therese finally left the group home, the three of them rented a cheap apartment in Little Italy while Dannie and Therese barely scraped through college, and afterwards moved to Greenwich Village, once all of them were in full-time employment. The life they lived now was stable, though they still weren't exactly comfortable financially. More importantly, they were happy. It was a life they had always wanted.  
  
It was also one that had often seemed unachievable for people like them. Therese still carried the weight of her past on her shoulders, a burden made of bricks that had been piled upon her the day her parents abandoned her in their run-down apartment in Queens. It had made her stronger, from the years of carrying it, but, on days like this one, it felt so unbearably heavy that it almost crushed her where she stood.   
  
If anyone could understand that burden, it was her brothers, and yet they were smiling at her with such hope on their faces that she almost felt anxious that she might let them down.  
  
'So, how was it?' Phil asked eagerly.  
  
'Yeah, tell us everything', Dannie encouraged.  
  
Therese shrugged awkwardly. 'Well, there's not much to tell', she said dismissively as she dropped her bag next to the radiator by the door. 'I don't think one day is enough to gauge how I feel'.  
  
'No, I suppose you're right', Phil murmured in agreement.  
  
'Are the people nice?' Dannie asked, reaching a hand into the fridge for another beer.  
  
'I think so', she shrugged, going over to sit opposite Phil at the table. 'Harge seems cool. He's my boss. But the office is pretty separated. Apart from him, I only really met the two people I'm working with'.  
  
'Well, what are they like?' Phil prompted.  
  
'I think Jack and I are gonna get along well. He was really helpful today, happy to answer all my questions. He's been working in the department since he was 18, he said. His dad's one of the top reporters'.  
  
Dannie looked smug, placing a cold Modelo in front of her. 'See, I told you! Nepotism is the only way to get into journalism in this city!'  
  
Therese rolled her eyes, still reluctant to admit he might be right. It was a friend of Dannie's in the finance department who'd helped get Therese the interview in the first place.  
  
'And the other person?' Phil questioned.  
  
'Genevieve'. Therese took a swig of her beer. 'She's a little scary'.  
  
'Scary how?'  
  
'Oh, she's just really fancy and glamorous', she replied flatly.  
  
Her brothers nodded in understanding. They knew by now that these qualities, in women especially, were among the most intimidating to Therese. And there was, of course, an obvious extension to this problem.  
  
'Is she hot?' Dannie asked.  
  
'Very', Therese admitted. 'But it's not about that, it's about . . .' she looked at the floor. 'I don't know, I guess I just feel out of place with someone like that. With Jack too, even. I feel inferior. I _am_ inferior'.  
  
'Why do you think that?' Dannie asked, frowning.  
  
'Isn't it obvious?' she smirked.  
  
Phil shook his head. 'You've gotta stop with that attitude', he scolded her. 'We've spoken about this before. It's why so many kids from the system end up in the shitty situations they do'.  
  
'I know, I know', she sighed. 'It's just . . . I was fine this morning. I was good. But when I got there and I saw the people I'd be working with . . . I felt different'.  
  
Dannie shrugged, as though this was no news to him. 'We're always gonna feel different', he said matter-of-factly. 'We _are_ different. But what does that matter if you can prove your worth on the job?'  
  
'You passed the interview', Phil added. 'They obviously saw something in you, even if you can't see it yourself'.  
  
'Exactly', Dannie agreed. 'You earned it, Tee. Same as Jack and Genevieve. There's nothing else to it'.  
  
Therese looked from Dannie, to Phil, both of them unwavering. She smiled, comforted, though not entirely convinced.

Still, why shouldn't she believe them? Both of them had gone through these same things in their own careers, but they hadn't let their past cause them problems. Maybe it was time Therese learned to do the same.  
  
The hardest part was over already, she'd gotten the job. Now all she had to do was keep going.  
  
'Thanks, guys', she said sincerely.  
  
Phil raised his almost-finished beer, clinking the glass neck of the bottle to his sister's. 'To Therese, and all her new success'.


	2. Lipstick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone has a great week!

Therese had never been the most of outgoing of women. Not quite a wallflower, and popular with those who knew her, but shy and apprehensive around new people, and quiet in group settings. A combination of both new people and large groups, then, Therese would typically avoid. She had attended enough of these events by now to know that it was just a little too far out of her comfort zone, but still, she tried when she had to. And tonight, she would have to.   
  
She looked into her own dull green eyes in the mirror as she applied a fine flick of black eyeliner to her outer corners. No, she wasn't the most outgoing, and neither was her make-up. What little she owned was currently strewn across the dusty surface of her desk; a mineral powder foundation, a brow pencil, a couple of tubes of lipstick that were used so infrequently they still looked brand new. Therese liked to keep it natural, only wearing a few dots of concealer and a thin layer of mascara on an ordinary day. She had been blessed with clear skin and neat, dark eyebrows that didn't require much maintenance, but lately she had wondered if these features had made her too complacent, or even reluctant, to ever try something new with her look. She was too accustomed to her routine now, too used to looking like her usual self. Too afraid of putting herself out there. Of getting herself noticed.  
  
She ran her fingers through her straightened hair, sharpened her eyeliner flicks with the corner of a make-up wipe, fastened her small silver hoops into her ears. She eyed herself hopefully in the mirror. She looked pretty. Nothing special, but pretty.  
  
Therese had never been to an office party (or a work mixer, as they were calling it) in her life. From what she'd heard about the New York Times events, she knew they were an occasion for which an employee should wear their finery. This was the last thing Therese wanted to hear, and she had tried desperately to hide her discomfort when Harge had invited her last week. That same night, she'd gone out and bought a forest green tailored jumpsuit with the money she'd borrowed from Dannie while she waited for her first pay-check. She stood up now, admiring it in the full length mirror by her bedroom door, running her hands along the stiff fabric, noticing how well it hugged the curves of her hips and dipped inwards at her small waist, and somehow managed to accentuate what little cleavage she had. It was perhaps the nicest piece of clothing she owned, and while it probably wasn't half as special as some of the outfits her co-workers owned, it fit her like a glove. She'd pair it with the well-loved black velvet blazer she'd picked up at a thrift store a three years ago, and her only pair of high-heeled sandals.  
  
She glanced at the brown leather watch on her wrist. _Time to go_ , she decided. She planned on arriving fashionably late, for no reason other than that she had nobody there waiting for her, and she didn't want to spend too much time hanging around as if she were a stranger just walked in off the street. She had abruptly accepted Harge's request that she attend because she knew it would look bad if she said she didn't want to go. She'd only been a member of his team for two weeks, and she didn't want to leave such an early impression of being antisocial. Because she _wasn't_ antisocial. She was just timid.  
  
She just had to show her face at the party. Her pretty, but plain, face. She studied it again in the mirror on the desk, leaning down to look at herself, filament bulbs drawing circles in her eyes. A face she was happy to let fade into a crowd, to be forgotten by those who didn't already know it.  
  
The girl in the mirror smirked at her as she realised something. What was the point in showing her face if no one was going to see it?  
  
Her hand reached suddenly to the desk, fingers closing around a smooth, matte cylinder. She picked up the lipstick and pulled of the lid with a satisfying pop, turning the bottom with her other hand. She leaned in closer to the mirror and let the deep, oxblood red glide across her lips.  
  


* * *

  
The room was loud, and the only way to balance it was to drink, until Therese felt loud herself. She fingered the stalk of her half-empty champagne flute, rolling it in her fingers, watching the golden liquid spin into a whirlpool, the bubbles fizzing to the top in an angry stream. Perhaps she looked pensive to others. Or drunk. She was neither of those things. In reality, she was searching for something to occupy her mind, something to distract her from the boredom.   
  
People had come and gone, as she stood alone by the wall. She'd spoken to a few, others had looked at her in pity before turning away and continuing their conversations as if they hadn't noticed her at all. She'd taken slow walks across the enormous, bustling dancefloor in the centre of the room, but the faces were all unknown to her. She looked again to the raised DJ booth by the front double doors, which led out into the hotel foyer, never staying shut for more than five seconds at a time as people wandered in and out. The bar, she couldn't see at all. It was blocked by a wall of bodies.  
  
'I like your lipstick'.  
  
Therese started, almost twinging her neck as she turned it sharply to the right.   
  
Genevieve was standing there, leaning back absent-mindedly against the wall. She'd appeared so silently, it was almost ghostly.   
  
'Gen', Therese acknowledged her in surprise, wondering for a moment how long she'd been at her side. It didn't matter. Here was someone familiar. Therese had never imagined she'd be this excited to see her.   
  
The older woman smiled, a kind of sardonic half-grin, the kind Therese had come to expect from her. 'Have you been here long?' she asked, swirling a tumbler of vodka and ice in one manicured hand.  
  
'Not really', she lied. 'You?'  
  
Gen nodded. 'I was hanging out with a friend, but she went off to shag some guy in the bathroom', she said drily. 'The typical office party'.  
  
'I don't know, I've never been to one', Therese admitted.  
  
'Then you're lucky'. Her piercing gaze turned to the room, surveying it. 'Isn't this the worst?'  
  
Therese smiled in amusement, grateful she wasn't the only one not enjoying herself. She took a moment to look Gen up and down, now the older woman's eyes were busy elsewhere, every other person nodding at her in greeting or waving as they passed by. She wore a corset dress with a high collar, purple as the midnight sky, long nails painted to match. Her long waves of raven hair were tied half-up, the bare skin of her arms looking paler than ever beneath it. She was like a gothic princess - regal, aloof, and strikingly beautiful.  
  
'You look really great', Therese said bashfully.  
  
Gen turned to her, flashing a brilliant white smile - _her real smile_ , Therese decided. 'Thanks, baby', she said. 'You do too. You're like a different person'.  
  
Therese raised an eyebrow. 'Is that a compliment?'  
  
'Yes. And no'. Gen's eyes lazily traced a path up and down Therese's body. 'I mean, I thought you were gorgeous before, but you really know how to scrub up well'.   
  
'Thank you', Therese said quietly, feeling her face grow warm.   
  
Genevieve looked smug then, seemingly satisfied with the obvious redness in Therese's cheeks. She took a few graceful steps forward, seemingly as comfortable in a pair of stilettos as she would be in fluffy slippers, before turning to look at Therese over her shoulder, gesturing with her head for her to follow.  
  
They began a slow journey through the busy centre of the room. Bodies danced around them in time with the music, huddled in small groups that seemed to mingle and merge as friends reunited and introductions were made. Out of the corner of her eye, Therese noticed Genevieve's interactions with them, a mouthed 'hello' or an elegant flutter of her fingers. It should have isolated Therese even more, but to have the older woman by her side, brushing off these other people, people she knew, in favour of her, filled her with a new kind of confidence.  
  
'Did you bring anyone?' Gen asked.  
  
'No. I didn't think you were allowed to'.  
  
'Well, you're not, really. Some do. The managers mostly. It's better to come alone, anyway. There are 500 people here and about 75% of them are either single or fine with adultery'. A dark smile played across her lips.  
  
'Looking for love, Gen?' Therese teased.   
  
Genevieve shook her head so vehemently that Therese instantly regretted her joke, worried she may have offended her.   
  
'Not love', Gen scorned. 'I don't do relationships'.  
  
Therese frowned. 'Why not?' she asked, before she could stop herself.  
  
But Gen didn't seem reluctant to share. 'I'm just not good at them', she shrugged. 'I'm not the most emotionally available of people'.  
  
She had such an apathetic way of speaking, Therese could believe that, at least judging by outward appearances, her own self-description might be true. Genevieve had the kind of persona Therese would have admired as a teenager; growing up in a group home would have been a lot easier had she adopted that cool, disaffected guise. As an adult, she knew she'd never be able to keep it up. But maybe it wasn't a guise for Gen. Therese just wondered how someone could become so untouchable.  
  
'Huh', she said flatly.  
  
The older woman looked at her challengingly. 'What?'  
  
'Nothing. I just realised I don't know anything about you'.  
  
'That's exactly how I like it', Gen said brightly. 'Anyway. What about you, are you seeing anyone?'  
  
'No', Therese answered. 'And I _do_ do relationships. I just don't have one right now'.  
  
Gen poked her playfully in the arm. 'I think Tommy in Harkevy's team has a little crush on you'.  
  
'Tommy?' she responded, slightly panicked at the prospect. 'I've barely said two words to him'.  
  
'Well, it doesn't sound like you're interested', Gen said, clearly having noticed the alarm in Therese's reaction.  
  
'No, and I don't think I've ever given any indication that I am'.  
  
Gen slowed down, and smiled at her knowingly. 'He's not your type, huh?'  
  
Therese hesitated, realising now she'd walked right into a trap. Her lip quivered, and she strained to keep her face neutral, desperately trying to hide the fact that Gen had caught her out.   
  
In truth, she'd already pondered that awkward subject of coming out at work, and had laid out a simple plan of action for herself. Therese had never been ashamed of being gay; while the realisation came relatively late to her, and she hadn't stopped dating men until she was 22, she'd never seen this part of herself as a problem. Since her early teens, the only family she'd known had been one she'd chosen for herself based on mutual love and support, which was a luxury she knew many queer people growing up in a traditional family wouldn't have experienced. She was lucky, in that respect. Unfortunately, her workplace experiences hadn't been as positive. A couple of male co-workers at the movie theatre she'd worked at had believed that Therese's sexuality, and her relationship with her girlfriend at the time, was only for their enjoyment, and they made these beliefs clear to Therese. It had made her want to scream, made her curse herself, made her feel dirty. She'd never go through that again, and she wouldn't have to, as long as she was careful in any other work environment she would be a part of. She couldn't anticipate the attitudes of the others in the office. And so her plan was this; she'd be honest, but she wouldn't bring up the topic unless she was specifically asked about it.  
  
Genevieve, however, Therese knew she could trust, because Gen herself was into women. Maybe she thought she hid her secretive flirtations well from prying eyes around the office, but Therese was too observant to be fooled.  
  
Therese looked at her, right into her sparkling eyes. 'You could say that', she said, a silent confession passing between them.  
  
Genevieve nodded in understanding, a smugness crossing her face once again. But she didn't press further.   
  
They had arrived at the bar, where Gen swiftly drained the last of her vodka and ordered another, saying hello to a smartly-dressed couple who were sitting there before turning her back on them, making it clear she didn't wish to talk. Both of them eyed her in what looked like awe.  
  
'You seem to know everyone here', Therese remarked, as the both of them leaned back comfortably against the bar.  
  
'I get around', Gen smirked, raising her next tumbler of vodka to her lips.  
  
Therese decided to ignore this comment. There was no doubt in her mind as to what it could have meant. 'Have you worked in other departments before?' she asked.  
  
'No. I shouldn't even be in this department. I ended up at the Times as a favour to Harge. I was filling in for someone'.  
  
'You knew him before?'  
  
Gen nodded. 'I'm a friend of his wife's. He needed someone urgently, and he knew I was both creative and unemployed'. She noticed Therese's questioning look. 'I paint', she clarified.  
  
'So you're an artist', Therese registered.  
  
Gen made a face. 'On and off. I've sold a few pieces. I was mostly just living off of my trust fund, to be honest. But I ended up enjoying working at the Times, so I just stayed. There's been a few people who've come and gone. And now we have you'.  
  
'Yep', Therese smiled sheepishly.  
  
'Did you always want to be a photo editor?'  
  
'Not exactly', she admitted with a shrug. 'But I think it'll be good for me. Just doing something that interests me, being somewhere I can progress'.  
  
'I think you'll do well here', Gen said, as if announcing the result of a thorough assessment she had made. 'Just don't do anything stupid'.  
  
Therese smiled at her gratefully. 'I'll try not to'.  
  
They stayed there a while longer, talking idly by the bar. Genevieve ordered another vodka, downing the strong spirit easily, for it somehow didn't affect her sober demeanor. Despite being the same size as her, Therese couldn't keep up with her drinking, though she had taken another glass from a champagne tray as a server drifted by with one.  
  
They were interrupted by the DJ's announcement.   
  
'Okay', he spoke into the microphone with a deep, trying-too-hard-to-be-sexy voice. 'We're gonna slow it down a little. I wanna see everyone coupled up on the dancefloor'.  
  
Genevieve scoffed. 'Just when you thought this party couldn't get any more ridiculous'.  
  
Therese opened her mouth to reply, to point out that Etta James's 'At Last' was anything _but_ ridiculous, but a firm tap on her shoulder startled her.  
  
'May I have this dance?'  
  
Jack had appeared, seemingly from the other end of the bar, wearing a grey suit with a smart tartan pattern, and a cheeky smile on his face.  
  
'Hey!' they greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek.   
  
Genevieve feigned offence. 'And you know, Jack, I thought you were going to ask _me_ to dance'.  
  
'Thought you had your eye on Ishani Vinayak', he shrugged, nodding his head towards a table in the corner. Both Therese and Gen followed his eyeline to where a woman in a golden satin gown, two long French braids of thick black hair trickling down to her waist, stood talking with a friend.  
  
'I do', Gen said simply.  
  
'Still not put off by her heterosexuality?' Jack asked outright.  
  
'No'.  
  
'And why should you be', he muttered under his breath.  
  
Gen shook her head, smirking. 'You're just jealous'.  
  
'Yeah, I am', Jack affirmed, throwing up his arms in despair. 'I'm trying to find just _one_ date and you keep going around convincing straight women to sleep with you'.  
  
'It's a gift', she boasted.  
  
'Go and use it then', Jack tested her. 'Go talk to her'.  
  
She glared at him, eyes hard, like sapphires. 'I will', she snapped. With that, she swallowed a last swig of vodka and slammed the empty glass down on the bar, swooping off dramatically.  
  
'Challenge accepted, I guess', Therese mumbled to herself, watching, bewildered, as she left.  
  
Jack shrugged. 'She's so stubborn. Absolutely can't bear losing'.  
  
She nodded. 'I get that vibe'.  
  
'I'll bet you 20 dollars that she'll take Ishani home tonight?' Jack looked at her hopefully.  
  
Therese laughed. 'No way, I know you'll win!'  
  
'Fine', he conceded.   
  
Jack led her out into a small clearing in the packed dancefloor, and turned to face her. He put a gentle hand on Therese's waist, as she did the same on his, their other hands joined in the space between their shoulders. Therese glanced at the other dancers around her. There was little romance out here; most of the couples were clearly just friends, like she and Jack. It was oddly comforting to Therese to exist in a space like this, swaying slowly to the music, like everyone else, just one small fish in the soft swell of an ocean of people. She felt, for the first time tonight, that she was a part of something.  
  
'Are you enjoying the party?' Jack asked.  
  
'Sure. I mean, I don't really know anyone but . . .'  
  
'Don't worry about it. I barely spoke to anyone my first six months on the job'.  
  
Therese raised an eyebrow. 'You struck me as super confident'.  
  
'Well, I'm not shy', he clarified. 'It's just that I was so young and everyone else was years older than me. I guess I felt intimidated'.  
  
'I feel like that now', Therese admitted.   
  
Jack smirked. 'I can tell'.  
  
'Is it really obvious?' she asked, heart sinking. She'd been trying so hard to hide her insecurities. She thought it was working.  
  
'Only to me, because I've been there before', Jack reassured her.  
  
'If you say so', she yielded.  
  
'Have you spoken to Harge yet?'  
  
'I haven't seen him'.  
  
'He's right over there'.  
  
Therese turned to look, following his eyeline.  
  
And then she gasped.  
  
Everything seemed to slow down, like she'd accidentally fallen into another reality in which time worked differently. All the sound in the room was sucked out until it was still like a vacuum, her heartbeat the only thing she could hear, quickening by the second.  
  
Because it wasn't Harge she was staring at, but the woman in his arms. The most beautiful woman Therese had ever seen.  
  
Her tall, lithe body moved with an effortless grace. The dimmed spotlights that trailed along the ceiling caught her soft waves of golden hair, made them shimmer and glow. She wore a floor-length black dress with short sleeves, all panels of bright embroidered flowers and leaves, intercut with lace. And her face . . . Therese wished she could see it up close, study it like a sculpture in a gallery.  
  
'Who is that?' she breathed, finally regaining her senses.  
  
'Carol', Jack answered. 'His wife'.  
  
'Carol', she repeated to herself, savouring the taste of the name in her mouth.  
  
'She's cool', Jack said indifferently. 'She comes by the office sometimes, but I haven't really met her apart from that'.  
  
And with that, he'd moved on. His voice faded, blending into Billie Holliday until it was one with the music, indecipherable. Therese was no longer listening, she wasn't able to. She couldn't comprehend his ability to talk at all.  
  
He'd barely given Carol a second thought. But Therese couldn't think about anything else.


End file.
